"Terence!"
It was the double doors behind Terence that Willy threw open, the surprise triggering a sputtering choking fit: Terence had just that second popped a meteor shaped candy into his mouth. He'd set up his vigil facing the only door in the office without any trim surrounding it—it lacked a knob, for that matter—set discreetly in the far wall, certain that door was right. The antique drafting table that had stood before it, the last time he was here with Charlie, had moved to Reception. Its absence made the likely door all the more obvious.
Sweeping into the room, Willy's eyes darted about like minnows. It was fine to tell the Oompa-Loompas to let Terence explore on his own, but the reality of finding someone in his office not him or an Oompa-Loompa was freaky. With a glance, Willy assured himself that his wall of files was unharmed, before strangle-ly noises, that might be coughing, led his eyes to the sofa in front of his desk. They got there in time to see Terence catch something falling from the ceiling. It was kinda neat—Terence was still coughing when he caught it—and it explained the skerschlap sound, Terence's palm, but why were pieces of whatever falling from his ceiling? There was nothing wrong with it when he left. Brows furrowed, Willy tilted his head, evaluating the heights, seeing nothing amiss. He soon gave it up. Fizzy Lifting would sort it out if it needed sorting—so much more fun than ladders, that stuff—but Terence needed attention.
"Ya gonna live?"
Terence nodded, sitting up from his prone position on the sofa, his coughs slowing, but hanging on.
Shrugging off his greatcoat, Willy let it settle lengthwise on the carpet. He moved to the shelves behind the sidebar, where his favorite top hat and Nerd filled walking-stick rested, never taking his eyes off Terence.
"If you don't say something, I'm coming over there and giving you the Heimlich maneuver."
Terence nodded again, tapping his chest himself, as he set the saucer of candies he'd had balanced there on the low table in front of him.
"Willy!" he gasped.
"That's something… Why are you here?"
Terence judged Willy's tone too imperious not to put him under some pressure.
"Why didn't you meet Charlie?"
Willy frowned, but softened.
"I asked you first."
"Anyone you know own a limo?"
Willy took off the silk top hat he was wearing and collapsed it.
"You mean right this second? Other than me? Nuh-ohhh… And I doubt mine runs. It's very old. It's a 1958 Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud Empress Saloon. I like it. But I don't get out much." He beamed, eyes widening for a moment. "It's silver, and it has a great, big, shiny, purple 'W' on it. Did your limo look like that?"
Terence shook his head. "No, it was black. One of your spy friends, perhaps?"
The gleam and matching grin that lit Willy's eyes and face was diabolical, as he exchanged walking-sticks and headed for his desk, his favorite top hat dangling from a hooked finger.
"My spy friends, Terence? Are you saying you own a limo? I'd've never guessed," Willy giggled, "and if you're saying you say you own a limo, why are you asking me?"
Willy's irreverence merited ignoring for the moment. His curiosity getting the better of him, Terence got up and walked over to the counter below the shelves Willy had just left. The hat and stick lying there when Terence arrived in the office were two of the things that had convinced him Willy was around. Those two items were now proved misleading, but this wasn't over. Terence had seen the walking-stick lying there now before: on his trip with Willy to Chartres. And a week or so after that, he'd seen its twin at Dr. Grant's house. Keeping one eye on Willy, Terence picked up the stick and examined its embossed, golden top. Satisfied, he laid it back down. It was the same one, all right.
Willy seemed not to mind the invasion, only raising a brow, and that for not long, as he settled himself. Terence wheeled 'round. It was time to set Willy straight.
"I do not own a limo, Willy, dear chap, and forgive me for failing to say your 'chocolate-making' spy friends, but I mention this because, as of this afternoon, you've got a limo monitoring your moving project. Care to get serious about this now?"
"No. Maybe. You don't say?"
Distracted, Willy was examining the reason he'd gone to his desk: the partially dismembered paddle ball toy lying on top of it. The empty end of the elastic dangled from his fingers, its expected tethered ball absent without leave.
"Is that what you have in your hand?"
Terence tossed him the ball.
"You broke it."
"No, the ball's not broken, and I can fix the toy. Doris and Eshle said you were in your room, it's off-limits, and that's the only thing I could find in this room that I thought might get you out of that one."
Willy tossed Terence the ball, and Terence gave him the demonstration the exchange asked for, throwing the ball against the ceiling fifteen feet above them, catching it, and doing it again. Finished, he tossed the ball back to Willy.
Contemplating the show, Willy turned the ball over in his hand, his mood changed.
"That, I daresay, would have done it. That, is amazingly annoying. It was annoying listening to it in the hall. I thought I was listening to half a tennis match, but without the shrieking. The shrieking makes me not fond of tennis. But I admire your method. And that you did that lying down… with a saucer on your chest."
Terence smiled at the compliment to his hand/eye co-ordination. Willy being nice was nice.
"I had to keep it interesting. I wasn't getting any results."
"I wasn't here. Which is why I didn't meet Charlie. Did he mind?"
Leaning against the counter, one leg crossed at the ankle, Terence shrugged, folding his arms across his chest.
"I wasn't here either. I was trying to find out who was in the limo."
Not daring to disturb the testy display of defensive body language, Willy waited.
"It drove off before I could."
Willy stowed the parts of the deconstructed toy in the center drawer where Terence had found it. It was the only drawer in Willy's desk Terence had found unlocked. As the drawer clicked shut, Willy met his gaze.
"So there ya go, sport. Limo gone… problem solved."
There'd be a problem if the walk-up couldn't pay, and that singularly sticky wicket was Dr. Wonka's first concern. As thin as she was, and as last-season as her clothes were, Dr. Wonka had his doubts. He wasn't running a charity. But when he'd asked, she'd produced a wad of cash, and a promise of more if it wasn't enough. He'd thumbed through the crumpled bills, and led her to his surgery. Now that relief was near, she was fast succumbing to the pain. The rest of the particulars could wait.
Offering the slightly built brunette a steadying hand, Dr. Wonka settled her into the examination chair. Teeth were what he lived for, and the excitement of a new set, set before him for his avid perusal, was setting in. He dreamed of making his thriving practice the most famous in the land—an endless supply of new conquests—and he wanted the story this woman told the world of her experience here to be a happy one.
Thrumming with anticipation, Dr. Wonka picked up his mouth mirror and explorer.
"Now open."
He waited a beat, while she complied. Delving forward, he murmured the next.
"Let's see what the damage is, shall we?"
They both knew the problem wasn't solved, and having removed the toy, Willy placed his hands and forearms flat on his desk.
"It's not my chocolate making spies, who you are so bent on making my friends, in that limo," Willy said. "Those despicable spies know they're one bad mood… and that would be my bad mood… away from bankruptcy, and trust me, those cads are seriously not interested in bankruptcy."
Terence uncrossed his arms.
"You mean Prodworth's?"
Willy touched his forehead to his desk, and came up laughing.
"You were paying attention this morning! They got together. Don't you love that? Don't you love the name? I prefer Noseslug's myself, it's so much closer to the mark of their quality, but there's no accounting for taste," more giggles, "well, I have Taste Accounting, but I'm myself." The giggles stopped. "Neither of them is worth a poke, much less a prod."
"What about Ficklegruber?"
Willy sat up straighter, and pushed away from his desk, his voice hollow, almost a monotone.
"I have no quarrel with him. He fell on his candy thermometer… quit the business, he did. It's a price I wouldn't have asked of him, knowing firsthand as I do what that feels like."
Willy looked off into space, and Terence could only imagine Willy imagining the Factory closed, but Willy's mood changed again, and the vacancy vanished. His hand found the drawer he had just shut.
"You said you could fix this."
The parts of the paddle ball toy were back on the desk.
"I can."
"Then fix it."
"Now?"
"Please. Sit here."
Willy stood, placing the top hat he'd set on his desk in its place on his head.
Terence felt more than odd taking the chair behind Willy's desk. Talk about off-limits … that would be it. Willy was serious though, he was holding the back of the chair anticipating Terence's arrival, and beginning to look impatient. Not entirely sure, Terence nevertheless obliged, drifting over to take up the offer.
With Terence suitably ensconced, Willy turned on his heel, and walked to the right-hand side of his wall of files. He pressed a recessed switch, bathing the files in purplish-blue light.
"While you fix it," Willy said, "you can tell me why you're really here. The limo is gone, and gone it would stay, if you'd gone and stayed down there. Instead, you've gone and come up here. Why?" Willy paused. "You didn't touch these."
Terence turned from his task at the desk, and sucked in his breath. The wall of light was striking. He'd thought Willy might have something like this lurking up his sleeve, and the toy was proving more trouble than it was worth to fix. Terence held it up.
"Are you attached to this? Pun intended. The wall looks nifty."
"Thank you. No strings here. Pun returned. Didn't you notice the dust all over the thing? Once you master it, the repeated smacking noise it makes is annoying."
Terence had to smile. Content with everything he'd done till now, especially not messing with the files, Terence put the paddle back down. "Then consider it a goner. How do you know I didn't touch them?"
Willy made a half-turn to the wall, and with his left hand, took his sweet time removing his right glove. With the side of his middle finger, he smudged the spine of the nearest file. The mark shone black. He turned a sideways glance to Terence, awaiting his reaction.
"Thought so. Not wearing gloves the way you do, I could've used my cuff," Terence grinned, making light of the gloveless hand, "but you do wear gloves, and it occurred to me that might be one of the other eighty-nine reasons why. If you had a way to detect them, oils would be a dead giveaway, and I figured you might. So I was tempted, but a cuff is not as foolproof as a glove, and I let them be. Besides," laughed Terence, "In absentia, you told me to SCRAM!"
Willy smiled. "So you saw that." He put his glove back on, rubbed away the smudge with his elbow, doused the purplish-blue light, and walked over to the window. As he neared the desk, Terence misread his goal. The chair's leather creaked as Terence started to rise, but without looking at him, Willy made a motion for Terence to stay where he was. Terence sank back.
Reaching the window, Willy stood silently, his chin sunk on his chest, his walking-stick clasped by both hands, held behind his back. His fingers were twirling it slowly, an outward manifestation of his inward thoughts. At the desk, Terence leaned forward. Making light of the demonstration had led to impasse. Terence could fix that. He pushed aside the broken toy.
"I knew you had hands, Willy," he said, softly. "We all do. I've seen them before. You never wore gloves when I knew you."
Willy sighed, not turning. "I've said it before. You know me now. So let's pretend I don't already know what you're going to say. What's the real flap about?"
Willy listened, while Terence told him.
The limo was waiting. It could go on waiting. Dr. Wonka, lost in his memories, was about to lose himself in this lot. A weak sun lit his steps as he moved off the sidewalk, pacing off the length of the entry hall, turning to stand where his surgery had stood. Mina had opened her mouth, and he'd lost himself in her teeth. They were perfect. The most perfect teeth he'd ever seen. He'd fallen in love with them, then and there, his mouth mirror showing him beauty he'd never imagined—beauty he'd never dreamed possible—his explorer exploring the flawless: shape, strength, enamel, color. The glorious symmetry of the tubal orientation in her dentin he could only envision, but envision it he did, his head spinning with the whirling shapes in his imagination. Stunned, he'd sat back, his breathing ragged.
"Is it that bad?"
Her pale hand had gone to her jaw, tapered fingers gently rubbing the hurt, afraid of pushing harder, afraid of the pain.
"No, my lovely," Dr. Wonka had sighed. "I've never seen finer."
Uncomprehending, her expression had clouded. Dr. Wonka could guess what she must be thinking, the silly twit: she wasn't his lovely, the pain was terrible, she wouldn't be his lovely, he was old enough to be her father, but Dr. Wonka cared nothing for her confusion, or her thoughts. He'd deal with the gum infection she suffered from, and suffer himself to make these magnificent teeth his own.
I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, please review, and enjoy the rest of your day.
Thank you reviewers, dionne dance, and Linkwonka88. Your encouragement is most welcome. Of course there's only one thing Dr. Wonka would fall in love with in a heartbeat, and now you know, if you hadn't guessed already.
